


Olive

by h0ldthiscat



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, fluff but also there's some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:32:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0ldthiscat/pseuds/h0ldthiscat
Summary: Hurricane Franky, Bridget thinks, and wonders, not for the first time in her life, if she’s a storm chaser.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in a new fandom always makes me nervous... let me know what you think!

“Make that line there bigger,” Bridget says, pointing.

Franky slaps her hand away. “Keep your mitts off my screen, Gidget.”

“It’s _my_ screen,” Bridget reminds her, playfully grabbing her thigh under the table. “Make it bigger.” Franky taps away at the keyboard. “Uh huh, now tab over, make those two line up, you see?”

“Yep.” The brunette hits a few more buttons. 

Outside, some branches tap at the window of the living room. It had been windy and crisp when Bridget arrived home an hour or so before. Franky had thrown some dinner together, more delicious than she’d ever be able to make, even when she was trying her hardest. 

“How’s this?” Franky asks beside her, touching Bridget’s hand that rests on her thigh. 

“Good,” Bridget answers, her face feeling warm. “Now, since this is a professional resume you’ll be sending out to law firms, have you considered referring to yourself as Francesca?”

Franky scoffs, and her green eyes flash. “No fucking way.”

“Why not, it’s a lovely name.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody important.” The brunette shrugs and crosses her arms, her mouth a tight line. 

Bridget arches an eyebrow and rests her head against her hand. “But it’s such a pretty name.”

Suddenly Franky smiles wickedly, a realization dawning on her. “You’re drunk, Gidget.”

“Am not.”

“No, you are!” She closes the computer. “You’re fucking plastered! You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”

“That’s not true,” Bridget insists, sitting up straight in the kitchen chair. “What about that night with the boomerang?”

“I don’t buy it.” Franky shakes her head. “You got off way too fast that night to be drunk.”

“I beg your pardon!” Bridget tries to find the energy to be offended and can’t muster it. “Do you keep track or something?”

Franky stands and scoops up the computer. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she whispers. 

She sashays down the hallway toward the bedroom, her hips swinging in a tiny pair of shorts. Bridget takes in the view for a moment, her heart beating quickly. It’s hard to believe that this is her life sometimes, that the woman who’d stormed into one of her group counseling sessions less than six months earlier had also managed to storm into her mind and her heart and turn the whole fucking world upside down. Hurricane Franky, Bridget thinks, and wonders, not for the first time in her life, if she’s a storm chaser. 

Bridget comes slowly to her feet; everything’s fuzzy around the edges in a warm, sort of melty way. Maybe she is drunk. She’s sure she doesn’t care. In the bedroom, Franky lies on her back with the computer open on her stomach. 

“I was thinking I’d make my name hot pink,” she jokes, turning the screen around so Bridget can see. 

“Perfect,” Bridget says, and shuts the computer, slinging an arm over the brunette’s waist. “Now come here.”

“All this working gal talk turning you on?” Franky teases, scooting closer. She works her knee between Bridget’s legs and Bridget hums in pleasure. 

“ _You’re_ turning me on,” Bridget whispers into the crook of her neck. Her skin there is intoxicating, a fragrant blend of her shampoo and her natural scent. Musky and floral, hard and soft, anger and hope. Her Franky. 

“Fuck, Gidget,” Franky hisses as Bridget slides a hand under the waistband of her shorts and palms her, hard. 

“I sit at my desk every day,” Bridget whispers in her ear, “and remember all the times you came onto me in that office. How I just wanted to give in and kiss you.”

Franky squirms beneath her hand. “Fucking hell. Bridget.”

“God, if only you knew how much I wanted you.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good idea right now,” Franky manages, expelling a puff of air. 

Bridget trains her blue eyes on Franky’s green ones as she moves to straddle her legs. She pulls her shorts down slowly, lingering along the backs of her thighs, the crooks of her knees. She loves Franky’s legs; the tracksuit sweatpants had never done them justice. 

“Gidge…” Franky breathes, sounding a little tentative. 

Bridget kisses a path up her partner’s thigh, dragging her mouth slowly over the hot skin. “Hm?” 

“What's your favorite color?” Franky asks, her voice tight. 

The blonde nudges the waistband of Franky’s underwear with her nose, nipping at her angular hipbone. “My what?”

Franky sweeps a hand through Bridget’s hair, clearing it off her face. “I don't know your favorite color,” the brunette says, her face flushed.

“Be a good girl and I'll tell you,” Bridget says, her mouth over Franky’s center, separated by only a thin layer of fabric. 

Franky shivers, then sits up on her elbows, pulling away. “Gidget, you're not listening. I wanted to buy you flowers at the supermarket today and I realized I don't know your favorite color.” 

Bridget stops, the world still fuzzy but slowly coming into focus. “That's sweet, you don't have to.” 

“That's not the point.” Franky puffs out her cheeks and shakes her head. Bridget realizes her eyes are glistening. 

“Baby, you okay?” Bridget sits up, all thoughts of seduction forgotten. 

The brunette shakes her head. “It's stupid.” 

“Your feelings aren't stupid, Franky,” Bridget assures her, taking her hand and kissing her palm. 

“How can you shrink even when you're drunk?” Franky asks, the corners of her mouth quirking up, those precious dimples blooming on her cheeks. 

“Can't turn it off, it’s who I am. What about the flowers?” 

Franky sniffs and says, “I'm standing there by the till, looking at the bouquets, and the lady goes, ‘what color d’ya fancy?’ And I realized I didn't know.” 

“Why does that bother you?” Bridget asks, rolling onto her side and stretching out beside Franky.

“You know why,” the younger woman says. When Bridget doesn’t respond she continues. “We’ve been living together for five months. I accidentally used your toothbrush the other day but I don’t know what your favorite color is.”

“It’s green,” Bridget answers simply. “Olive, really.”

“I’ve never really had a proper girl,” Franky says, her voice quiet. She picks at something on the sheets. “But I always told myself that when I got one, I was gonna treat her right. Cook for her and buy her flowers and--”

“Make her pussy feel absolutely divine?” Bridget finishes.

Franky gasps and grins, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “You _are_ drunk!”

“Drunk and horny, come here.” Bridget wraps a hand around her partner’s waist and pulls her close, their noses nearly touching. She kisses Franky slowly, swiping her thumb across her cheek, feeling her heart beat beside her own. 

“Gidget, you’re the only thing that feels real sometimes,” she says quietly, her eyes searching her face. 

“I’m very real,” Bridget assures her, cradling her face. 

“My favorite color’s red, thanks for asking,” Franky breathes, still smiling. 

“You look good in red.” Bridget plays with the crimson-colored waistband of the brunette’s panties. “You look good out of it, too, if we’re getting technical.”

Franky smiles, evidently pleased with herself. “Some guy called me today. Wants to do a radio interview.”

“What about?” Bridget asks, propping herself up on her elbow. 

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not gonna do it.”

“Why not?” 

“Cause all he’ll want to talk about is what happened before, when I was on tv.” Franky crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Did he say that’s what he wanted to talk about?”

“Well he didn’t have to, did he? All those fucking producers who’ve called since I’ve been out, all they want to do is get me back on tv, make me out to be this big bad prison bitch.”

“Baby, you are a big bad prison bitch,” Bridget whispers against the brunette’s arm, her lips brushing over the woman tattooed there, coming to rest at the pointed tips of her breasts. She wonders, not for the first time, if it was simply an artist’s rendering or if it was created in someone’s image. 

“I’m tired of other people telling me what I am,” Franky sighs beside her. “I’m me now, maybe for the first time ever and I’m not gonna let anyone take that away from me.” 

“I’m proud of you,” Bridget whispers. “I know it sounds like I’m just saying it to say it, but I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

Franky kisses the tip of her nose. “Don’t go soft on me, Gidge.”

“I figured I could be the big softie and you’d be the big bad prison bitch,” Bridget suggests. 

“You’re the one who works at a prison,” the brunette points out. “If anyone’s a bad prison bitch it’s you.”

Bridget raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? How’d you like a bad prison bitch to go down on you?”

Franky grins and rests her hands behind her head. “Yes, please.”

The skin on the inside of her thighs is incredibly soft, and Bridget marks her path down towards Franky’s center, the grin on her face growing wider with every kiss.


End file.
